Mad Max: Waster's Land
by ThreeOrangeWhips
Summary: The Road Warrior marches through the desolate desert with nothing but a bloody duffel bag dragging behind him. In pursuit are the Dead, a ruthless gang who wear the bones of their victims like armor. Max seeks sanctuary in a settlement known as Waster's Land which is built around the last working oil derrick. Violence erupts as all sides demand justice.
1. Silence

Silence.

An ocean of dirt and desolation.

Smoke rises over the horizon.

A big rig is flipped on its side. Its metal skin is ripped open and black blood seeps into the dirt. Smoke rises from the open wounds and fills the sky. Lodged in its side is a black arrow which has pierced its chrome heart – the Interceptor.

A trail of dead bodies follow behind the incapacitated truck. They're gaunt figures lodged in sand. What skin shows has been covered in white paint which flakes in the sun. What skin doesn't is covered in bone. Human bone. Bones wrapped around their lifeless appendages like armor. Hollow skulls worn atop their faces like masks. They have become the dead they worship.

Blood dots the sand. The dots begin to blur into a streak. The streak leads into the blood seeping out of the bottom of a green military duffel bag being dragged across the desert. The taut cord pulling it forward is wrapped around the shoulder of the sole survivor of the bloodbath being left behind

Max.

* * *

It is night. Max is alone at a campfire staring into the red liquid center of the flames. He sits atop the bloody duffel bag. He fans the flames at the slightest hint of flickering to keep it burning bright. The crackling of the burning wood is a brief reprieve from the voices in his head.

The bag begins to buck. Fresh blood begins to weep through its fibers.

Max stands up. He stomps down on the bag with the heel of his right boot. He sits back down on it.

* * *

Max grunts as the cord tightens around his shoulder. He drags the bag behind him as he pulls himself up the steep curve of a sand dune. Sweat trickles down his forehead. Blood trickles down the side of the bag. He lets out an almost feral shriek as he pulls the bag up with him over the lip of the dune. He falls to his knees panting and hunches over into the dirt. The sun-baked sand burns to the touch and clings to the sweat on his skin.

From this vantage point he can see into the horizon. Miles ahead of him below in the valley the dune overlooks he sees a settlement. Waster's Land.

Waster's Land is built around one of the last remaining oil derricks. Its rusted limbs stick pump slowly up and down as it drains the last drops of blood out of the earth. A makeshift village of shacks and shanties surround its base and the distant murmurings of humanity can be heard from the streets which cut between them.

The entire community is surrounding by a wall of of car shells. That wall is surrounded by an ocean of oil. A moat to protect the castle.

* * *

Max approaches the edge of the ocean. The smell of the oil burns his nostrils. The bag drags behind him limply.

The only point of entry is a ramshackle drawbridge crafted out of the halved tops of school buses and rotted wood. The bridge is drawn. A small alcove has been built into the wall near the chains which hold it up and a young man kneels down upon it looking down at Max. He wears a hard hat bleached white by the sun. Netting hangs down from the rim of the hat and covers his face.

The man balances a crossbow on his knee and points it down toward Max. His name is his duty. Kill.

"What is it you need in Waster's Land?"

"Transportation," Max growls back.

Kill eyes Max up and down. He gently rubs the back of his sunburnt hand on the quill of the arrow loaded into the crossbow. This figure he sees below him is broken. A brace on his leg. Bloody wounds decorating his face. Carrying nothing but the bloody sack which drags behind him.

"You got something to trade for this transportation?"

Max kicks the bag.

* * *

Bone bangs against bone. The sound echoes through the dead plains. A hand covered in the severed skeletal fingers of fallen prey reaches forward and lightly graces the cold steel of the Interceptor. Its back end floats impossibly in the air; its front end still lodged in the side of a demolished big rig.

The hand pulls back in anger.

"Where is my son!?" Kallous screams.

Kallous. The leader of The Dead. His body encased in the bones of those he has killed. Ribs lining his chest like armor. Femurs wrapped around his legs. His arms encased in humeri. His proud father's skull halved and its front worn atop his face like a mask. His fierce, piercing eyes peer through the hollowed sockets.

A dozen of his men scramble before him. They loot the bodies of their fallen brothers who have been almost entirely consumed by the rising sand. They search for the location of Splat, Kallous' son who led the war party that now lay in ruins before them.

He is not there.

No trace of him remains except for dried streaks of blood unearthed from the sand which dusted them.

They are aimed in the direction of Waster's Land.

* * *

Stray drops of oil rain down upon the streets of Waster's Land. As long as the derrick pumps, they fall. Max and Kill each carry one end of the duffel bag as they push their way through a crowded marketplace in which fried geckos and guns are paraded in front of their faces by desperate sellers. Max stares in bemusement at the women who walk with buckets atop their head to catch the oil which rains down.

At the edge of the marketplace begins a long wooden path made up of round barrel tops stomped into the dirt. Armed guards stand alongside it staring suspiciously as Max but refrain from saying a word with Kill in stride beside him. Max can see that the path leads to the base of the derrick and a dilapidated hut which leans uneasily against it. Their heavy boots clomp loudly against the wood beneath their feet.

As they approach the hut, Kill glances over to Max.

"You get any thoughts 'side from bartering…I bury an arrow in your head."

Max says nothing.

* * *

Waster brings a bowl of oil to his lips. He keeps his eyes locked on Max as it dribbles down his chin. The narrow trapezoid shape of the derrick is tattooed onto his forehead. His hands are scarred with burns and loosely wrapped in blackened bandages.

He wipes the oil from his lips. "Do you know why I drink it?"

Max glares back.

Waster dips the bowl into the pool of oil formed into the floor in front of him. The black liquid slowly drips down through a perfectly round hole carved into the ceiling of the hut. He holds the bowl out to Max.

"Have a sip. Find out."

Max slowly reaches out to the bowl. He takes it in both hands. He pours it out onto the floor. He hands it back to Waster.

Waster smiles. "I admit, it is an acquired taste."

Waster glances down at the bag that Max and Kill dragged into the hut. It is twitching.

"Kill tells me you're in need of transportation. I do hope that's something of value squirming in there."

Max kneels down. He reaches behind his left leg and pulls out a long corrugated blade concealed in the straps of his brace. He stabs it into the dense fabric of the satchel and begins to rip it open.

Within the bag appears bone. And then bloodied flesh. And finally the bruised beaten face of a member of the Dead who seems to drift in and out of consciousness.

Waster's head cocks in confusion. "This is what you bring me? I have no use for the Dead. The only value in a prisoner of war is with a pike through its head."

Max reaches into the bag. He grabs onto one of the dusty aged bones the Dead wears around its arm and yanks it free from the rope tying it down.

Max holds the bone out to Waster. "This bone he wears. This is your wife."

Waster's eyes glaze over. His shoulders hunch over. He snarls at Max.

Max rotates the bone in his fingers. A name is carved into its bottom. He holds it out into the light streaming down through the hole in the ceiling.

Waster snatches it out of his hand. His fingers tighten around it as his eyes scan the figures carved into it.

Waster looks back up at Max. "A car for this monster. Deal."

"You're not getting him," Max replies.

Waster is no longer amused. "You come bearing my wife's killer but he's not for sale?"

"This man's father is Kallous." Max points back to the direction from which he approached the settlement. "Kallous will be following behind me. He will reach Waster's Land by dusk. His desperation will make him weak. It is him I bring you."

Waster's eyes still flare. "Why would I want him?"

"He wears the bones of your son."


	2. He Sees Her In His Dream

He sees her in his dream.

She cradles a bundle of bloody skin in her arms.

He wakes in a sweat.

Max lies on a tarp on the oil-drenched floor of a garage on the outskirts of Waster's Land. The domicile belongs to Kill who threw Max a tarp to sleep on before heading back for a shift on the wall. The corner of the roof above him has peeled off like a tin can and Max can see the stars through its bent steel. The incessant pattering of oil is no longer be heard with the derrick being shut down for the night.

There's movement in the corner of the room. Splat stirs. He is chained to the battered chassis of a jeep which has rusted into the floor. He is very much alive despite Waster's hopes for the contrary. The bones he wore have been stripped off and are now buried in the field of dirt beyond Waster's shack.

Splat mumbles. This is the first he's spoken in days. His voice is haggard. "…kill you…"

Max looks at the stars. The dream still haunts him.

"…the bones…the bones…" Splat continues to mumble.

Max looks down from the stars to gaze upon Splat.

"My father…"

"Your father is coming. I know," Max finishes him off bluntly.

Splat flings himself forward but the chain holds him back. He grunts and growls like a feral creature. Max calmly turns on his side as if the noises are soothing.

Splat begins to pant. "Your biggest mistake…was leaving me alive."

Shrieks once again erupt out of Splat as he attempts to rip his arms free of the chain.

Max closes his eyes. This is like a lullaby for him.

* * *

Waster is on bended knee at the grave. He cups oil in his scarred hands and pours it gently down the blank stone which has been hammered into the dirt.

He speaks in prayer.

"The earth gives. The earth takes back. I return to you to the dirt that you may seep into the oil and become one with it. That you may rise once again and give life to our engines."

He speaks in despair.

"I failed you. I failed our son. I couldn't protect you from the wolves at the door. As you braved the road I remained in this fortress like a coward. You were always braver than I was. I used to think it was your curse but perhaps those who face the brutality of our age with a fearless gaze are the only ones who truly live. The rest of us cower behind walls unwilling to face the truth of what's on the other side.

He speaks in anger.

"Never again will I underestimate the sickness of this world. Of those who wear the bones of the dead as if it grants them power over the past. Their spilled blood will dry in the sun, too impure to enter the soil."

He hangs on those few words.

"Their spilled blood…"

* * *

A scream wakes Max up with a startle. Startling as it isn't his own. Splat is feral in the corner as Waster approaches him with a knife in hand. Max reaches into the back of his leg brace for the corrugated blade which guides his way as he charges forward. He lands with a thud against Waster as he slams him into the wall. He brings the blade to Waster's throat and stares into his eyes.

"We had a deal," Max growls.

"There are no deals," Waster spits back. "They want a land with no order, they will get a land with no order. I'll kill him, I'll kill his father and I'll kill the fools that follow them."

Max presses the blade against his throat. A drop of blood begins to pool on the steel.

"You won't get to his father without him. You won't get to his fools without him. You kill him now, nothing changes."

Splat laughs like a hyena at the sight before him.

Waster pushes against the knife to stare into Max's eyes. "What changes is he's dead. He will hurt no more."

Max doesn't flinch. "I bring you his father, you give us a ride. That was the deal."

"And what becomes of you and him? You ride off into the sunset to start a new life together?"

Max remains unblinking. "His fate is not in your hands."

Waster relents. He eases back from the blade as blood begins to leak down into the fibers of his collar. Max eases himself back but the blade remains gripped tight in his fist.

Waster looks upon Splat who remains laughing uncontrollably in the corner. His eyes are upon this wheezing hysterical figure but he speaks to Max.

"And whose hands does his fate rest in?"

* * *

Though she knows he will not find it, she hangs the lantern on the hook upon the post. A lone light in an unending darkness to lead him back home. It's quiet but she does not find herself nostalgic for the nights in which roaring engines and screams could be heard reverberating through the canyon. Silence is her last bastion of sanity.

She lives alone in a crooked house at the base of a steep stone hill. Smoke rises from a crumbling chimney as a stew full of lizard chunks and other wasteland treats cooks in the pit. The floorboards creak as she enters.

She leans over the fire and stirs the stew. Sitting on the mantle of the stone pit is a mirror. In its cloudy surface she catches a glimpse of her old and weathered face. A folded piece of paper rests in the corner of its frame. She gently runs her finger along its edge before pulling it out and unfolding it.

A child's drawing of a tree in charcoal. Even as a shapeless pitch black skeleton she can see the life which runs through its branches which will one day again sprout life.

She folds the drawing up and puts it back in the frame. She knows that there will be a day soon when she will be able to hang it up again.

* * *

A bundle of bones screams across the desert plains. Kallous sits in the passenger seat with his eyes closed letting the rushing wind soothe him. The knuckles of Cazz are wrapped around the wheel whose eyes see through the dark wind-blown dust through a pair of night-vision goggles hanging off his head.

"Faster," Kallous bellows.

The vehicle speeds up. A military jeep adorned with bones and ligament. Sand and dust rip against its shell with echoing pings. No convoy follows them. They speed nowhere into the dark as the dirt their tires raise spirals into tornados behind them.

Kallous' eyes dart open. He lets out a pained scream louder than the engine which drives him.

* * *

Max wakes in the morning having survived the grief which come for him in the night. Splat sleeps in the corner, his throat intact. Kill snores from a hammock hanging between two towers of tires having finished his shift. Oil rains down on the rooftop once again.

Max walks outside and is greeted with the burn of the sun. The oil is heat as it hits the skin. The garage is close to the wall of cars and a ladder of open windows and side view mirrors extend out like a ladder to the top. Max begins to scramble up, taking a quick look back halfway up to witness the citizens of Waster's Land taking to the streets as the shops of the marketplace open.

Max pulls himself atop the hood of a trunk at the top of the wall and warily stands. He can hear gurgling bubbles from the river of oil which snakes underneath the wall. The vast wasteland stretches as far as the eye can see and Max holds his hand below his brow to scan the horizon.

He doesn't see them but he knows they're out there. The Dead. Those who grieve through the bones they wear. Whose tenuous hold on the past is what allows for the horror they commit in the present. Their reckoning is soon at hand.


	3. Hell Breaks Loose

Hell breaks loose.

Blood splatters against the canyon wall.

An arrow enters his gut.

A strand of barbed wire is wrapped around the arrow. He struggles for breath as his eyes follow the long strand to the archer who fired it. Cazz has dropped the bow and playfully tugs on the barbed string as if trying to pull in a fish. The black leather gloves Cazz wears are covered with rotten teeth.

He is only 18 and he realizes that the time he spent in this wasteland was not enough to constitute a life which could flash before his eyes. All he remembers are his mother's eyes staring down at him as he lies on the floor next to the floor warming his hands and a dog barking far off in the distance that he would never see again.

All that fought with him are dead. Their bodies are being dragged away by The Dead to a van which will carry them away to be reduced into holy armour. He's kneeling at the edge of the canyon where in vain he and those who lived within it attempted to stop the caravan sent to destroy them.

"Zak, my boy," Kallous says with a hearty laugh stepping out of the jeep heading the convoy. "I told you I'd be killing you today."

Kallous walks towards him, careful to step out of the way of bodies being dragged back in the opposite direction. He is smiling. He reaches him and places his hand on his shoulder.

"I'd like to tell you the story of my Dead."

Kallous points to bones wrapped around his legs. "These are what remain of my father Tye, reborn as Reaper, the keeper of The Dead. It was he who bound us followers to those who came before, who dug up the chosen that would serve as our first protectors. I bested him in combat and he passed onto me his tribe and his remains."

Kallous points to sharpened bone he wears on his shoulders. "These are what remain of an assassin from the Stakelands named Skud who was sent to kill me. Despite his mercenary nature, he put up a noble fight. By wearing him, I carry that nobility."

Kallous begins pointing to various bones as if unsure which one is correct. "One of these are…what remain of your father. He was a coward but he ran very fast. By wearing him, I hope to harness that speed."

Anger courses through Zak and he attempts to stand but Cazz pulls on the barbed chain with a laugh. Zak drops back to his knees and yelps in pain.

Kallous leans down to whisper in Zak's ear.

"What will _your_ bones bring me?" 

* * *

Max rests his elbows on the hood of the Interceptor and gazes through the binoculars. At the mouth of the canyon he sees the caravan of the Dead. They drag the bodies of the fallen homesteaders into their vehicles. Those who showed spine and will now have it ripped out of them.

Max sighs at their worthless guile. He prefers to loot the bodies of those foolish enough to fight rather than do the fighting himself.

He knows how this scenario played out. How it always plays out. Those who live in the canyon want to keep their land. Those who kill and pillage need the canyon as a choke point through which they can better kill and pillage. An agreement is worked out through massacre.

Chaos like this breeds opportunity. The survivors are so quick to take their spoils of war that often supplies are hastily left behind. Max knows he'll find unspent shells and other goodies covered in blood and half-buried in sand. He's swept up after the Dead before – after they ran a fleet of RVs into a storm and watched the swirling sands tear apart their vehicles. After they razed a farm and slaughtered the family who thought they could live off the land. After they intercepted those fleeing from Waster's Land thinking they cold forge a new life elsewhere only to be grind into bone meal a few miles out in the sands.

He just needs to wait. 

* * *

Zak stumbles forward. The arrow remains in his gut and the barbed wire remains wrapped around it. The wire is taut and tied to the spoiler on Kallous' jeep. Cazz is behind the wheel and Zak can hear his laughter whenever he presses down on the gas to lurch him forward with a tug on the line.

The caravan proceeds slowly through the canyon. The eyes of the Dead scan the walls searching for any stray canyoners who may still fight back against their invaders. Every thirty seconds or so they let off a shot in the hopes of scaring some movement out of potential attackers.

Kallous is sprawled out in the backseat of the jeep with his bones rustling into the fabric. Splat is pressed against the opposite door his father's hulking frame taking up most of the seat. The silence between the two men is soundtracked by the roaring engines outside and pot shots and shrieks from Zak being pulled along behind them.

"Legacy is quite a thing, son. It's quite a thing," Kallous says. "That which we leave behind is what defines us. My father told me that a long, long time ago."

Outside the sun and the eyes of the Dead, Splat is meek and measured. He looks over at his heaving bloated father.

"Is that truly what he said?"

Kallous turns to look at him. He reaches deep within a skin pouch strapped around in his waist and pulls out a small faded piece of paper. He hands it to Splat.

The paper feels like it might disintegrate in Splat's hand. He holds it delicately and brings it slowly to his eyes to read the faded print upon it: " _Kapersky & Sons Used Cars 'Have Trust, No Rust'" _The rest of the writing has been erased by time.

"He said it to be in a time long before you could ever remember," Kallous says. "Those words…I still live by them. All I've done has been crafting a legacy that I can leave you. That will allow you to survive and thrive in this wasteland we live in."

Splat carefully hands back the card as if a sacred relic. Kallous looks down at in silence for a time before tearing it apart in his hands. He throws the shreds out the window and they're carried by the breeze and lost in the dust dredged up by the caravan.

"That is not your world," Kallous says as he gazes out the window. 

* * *

An unlit lantern hangs from the post, useless in the burning heat of the sun.

She dashes through the door amidst the sounds of the caravan echoing down the canyon. Steel and bone begin to circle around the crooked home at the base of the steep stone hill and their shrill engines mix with her screams. She waves a machete in her hand as if it could possibly hold a threat to the war party that surrounds her.

Zak is collapsed on the ground bloodied and bruised having been dragged when his legs gave out. Even in his weakened state he can hear his mother above the roars around him. He pushes the tip of the arrow into the ground and yelps in pain as he uses it to help propel himself up off the ground.

Dorothy sees her son behind the jeep with the arrow deep in his gut. She runs towards him but the back door of the vehicle kicks open as she runs past and slams her into the ground. Kallous frees himself of the backseat and towers over her lying in a heap on the ground. The machete falls with a clang into the hardened dirt.

"Such a warm welcome for your son. Very touching," Kallous laughs.

Above them all, from the rounded edges of the canyon's peak, Max watches all through his binoculars.

Kallous motions for Splat to get out of the vehicle. Splat obliges.

"Would you mind bringing Zak over for a reunion with his mother?" Kallous asks Splat.

Splat tugs on the chain and Zak screeches as he falters forward. He drops to his knees at his mother and they both hold each other in their arms crying.

"We told you we wanted the canyon. We gave you a choice. You choose poorly," Kallous says staring down at the weeping wounded family.

Kallous bends down and picks the machete off the ground. He circles it around in the air. He looks into the blade but its too dirty to see his reflection in. He holds it out towards Splat.

"I'm going to need you to kill Zak, boy," Kallous says matter-of-factly.

Splat takes a second to react. He reaches out hesitantly and takes the weapon.

"Legacy, boy. Legacy," Kallous says as he looks into Splat's eyes.

Splat nods. He looks within himself. His past. His life in the wasteland. The things he's seen…the things he tries to bury…he lets them wash over himself. He sees the eyes of the feral dogs – the dogs viciously chewing on the blood and bone of those festering in the desert sun. The dogs that still haunt his dreams and look up at him with a knowing gaze. He lets out a shriek and plunges the machete deep into Zak's neck and pulls it downward and out. He spins away from the bloody mess and throws the machete against the side of the jeep with a yell.

Dorothy stares into her son's eyes as he sputters and coughs and goes limp.

Kallous puts a hand on her shoulder.

"We'll let you keep the house, dear. It'd be a shame to destroy such a quaint piece of property. Be sure and wave to our trucks as they go by on their route." 

* * *

In the dusk, long after the caravan has gone and only the treads they left in sand remain, Max approaches the house. Zak's body still lies motionless on the ground. Dorothy is catatonic sitting against the post. The lantern is lit above her.

Max kneels down at the body and begins scavenging for any useful scrap or tool. No thoughts go through his head. He runs on instinct. His hands become bloody but still he searches.

He looks up at Dorothy. He doesn't know why. She stares straight ahead blankly toward a place that no one should ever see. Her mouth is agape. She shivers as the canyon cools in the setting sun. Her eyes don't blink.

Her eyes.

Max sees her. Years before the fall. Behind a counter. A wall of instruments lining the shelves behind her. A tiny body in his arms shakes with laughter at the sound coming out of curved brass. The woman teases the boy laughing at the sound and says it wasn't that bad. The woman says it will make the perfect present.

Max stares at Dorothy. Her face is weak and weathered. But the eyes are the same. The eyes glaring down at the boy as she pressed the instrument to his lips and asked if he would like to try. How long had it been. A lifetime ago. A world ago. A clef symbol hung like a sign above the door.

He looks at his bloodied hands. At the body before him. He hangs it over his arms and begins to walk towards the woman before him like it's an offering.

It takes time but her eyes slowly lift to look up at him.

Max is silent for a moment.

"Do you have a shovel?"


	4. His Grip Tightens

His grip tightens.

He slams his foot down on the pedal.

The engine shrieks to life.

The Interceptor slams against the side of the kart and the bones encasing its shell explode into dust. Max yanks the wheel to the left to straighten out as the kart bounces off the rough road, its driver stunned from the attack.

Max zooms past and eyes the rear-view mirror to ensure it recovers and keeps pace behind him. Ahead are three more karts keeping pace in formation around the sides and front of a big rig hauling a tanker full of oil. The kart behind him speeds up and gives his bumper a tap in a futile form of retaliation for the sideswipe he just gave him.

The vehicles ahead have noticed him and speed up. They remain in formation around the big rig. Max frees a hand from its grip on the wheel and it drifts down to the ruby red supercharger switch. He flicks it and the car explodes forward like a cannonball into the spoiler of the tanker. The love tap startles the big rig driver and he speeds up, forcing the kart flanking in front to swerve to the left as the rig barrels past him.

The kart already on the left slams on its brakes as the former frontrunner suddenly appears before him. Its driver turns his head to the right to see what brought about the change in formation and sees the Interceptor trailing right behind the big rig with the stunted barrel of a sawed-off shotgun extended out of its open driver-side window. The driver's scream is cut short as fire erupts out of the barrel which sprinkles the top half portion of his head out the window onto the passing dirt road. The car remains braking but the half-headed driver's ragdoll arms tangle in the steering wheel and pull it abruptly to the left. Its tires screams at the sudden change in direction and the kart flips sideways into the air as gore and debris shrapnel out across the sunbaked sand.

The kart trailing behind Max swerves briefly off the road as his former compatriot rolls to an upside-down halt in front of him. His eyes flash in anger upon seeing the wreckage in his rear-view mirror and he surveys the scene which continues in front of him: the big rig in the middle. Two karts remaining on either side. The Interceptor nipping at its now-twisted spoiler.

Max has one hand on the wheel. The other flips open the shotgun and sends the two spent cartridges flying to the floor to join its brothers already rolling back and forth from the chaos. He reaches for the creases in the passenger seat for fresh shells but it's bare. He grunts and tosses the temporarily useless gun into the hollowed-out rear of the car.

In the passenger seat of the big rig is a frantic Splat. He peers out the right window and sees one of his vehicular bodyguards keeping pace beside them. He clutches to the window frame as if his narrow fingers were talons and extends his head out in a rage towards the driver of the trailing kart.

"Do you plan on killing this scum any time today?" Splat screams over the cacophony of engines.

The kart driver stares at the shrieking flailing Splat for a second before raising him the middle finger. He reaches forward over the wheel and grabs the handgun jammed into a nailed-down holster on the dash.

He slows. The kart drifts back and it's soon parallel with the Interceptor still trailing behind the tanker. The driver locks eyes with Max. Max locks eyes with the driver. Max gives a slight nod of the head.

Max slides his hands down to the bottom of the wheel and ducks as low as possible as bullets rip through the side of the Interceptor. The gunshots reverberate through the interior of the car like it was a tin drum.

Max peers over the dash at the kart running slightly ahead and to the right. He sees the driver with one hand on the wheel, the other extended outwards towards him with its fingers coiled around a gun. Max sees his opportunity and tugs the wheel to the right, slamming the front end of the Interceptor into the back end of the kart.

The driver fires one more shot but the shunt sends his kart into a swerve and he fails to correct it with only one hand on the wheel. He spins out and the kart shrieks to an abrupt stop on the side of the road as the Interceptor straightens out and continues on in the right-hand spot he previously inhabited.

"To hell with this," the driver mutters. He turns the wheel and throttles back in the direction from which they came to alert Kallous of the ambush.

Max pulls up alongside the cab of the big rig. He stares up at Splat who returns the favour with his own icy glare. Without breaking eye contact, Max reaches down and flicks the turbocharger again, the Interceptor blasting forward and ahead of the rig. He swerves abruptly to the left, cutting completely past the front of the truck.

The kart flanking on the left slams on its brakes as the Interceptor appears out of nowhere from in front of the rig. It screeches to a complete stop as the kart which trailed behind suddenly honks and clips the front end it which is angled into the center of the road. The engine coughs and dies a painful death.

All that remains is the big rig and a sole kart which continues to trail behind it. Max maintains pace on the left side of the tanker. He stares daggers at the panicked goon sitting behind the oversized wheel of the truck. There's another bone-covered thug squeezed in the middle between the driver and Splat in the cab.

Splat is fed up. He reaches over and pulls the steering wheel to the right without warning launching the big rig off the road and into the uncharted wastelands.

"The straight and narrow isn't working out, is it?" Splat says in explanation to the angry driver.

Max and the trailing kart are slow to react to the sudden departure of the big rig. With its absence, they soon find themselves riding side by side.

Splat hears the shattering collision of the two vehicles back from the road. He leans out the window and attempts to look back to see what damage was done but the wall of sand raised by their wheels makes it impossible to see anything but a fog of rust-coloured dirt.

Splat looks ahead bemused.

"Well… _something_ happened."

* * *

The big rig is stopped in the sweltering heat. The hood is open and the two Dead goons are buried within it doing their best to clear it of the dry brittle sand that has clogged its insides up. The sound of the bones they wear clanging against the big rig's metal interior echoes across the vast plains.

A low hum can be heard. Splat sits against a back tire in the shade of the tanker and lifts his head. The hum grows louder. He pulls himself up and slowly makes his way to the back of the tanker and the rungs which run up it. Splat climbs to the narrow platform which runs atop the rounded tank and carefully stands up.

He sees it. Barrelling across the sand. The hum slowly turning into a roar.

The Interceptor.

Splat shakes his head.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."


End file.
